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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28141425">Head to Head In Love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarriorOmen/pseuds/WarriorOmen'>WarriorOmen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5 plus 1 style, Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Headbonk of Love, Intimacy, Love, M/M, Modern verse, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Romance, Sexual Tension, Sexual Themes, Sexual elements, Through the Years, historical verse, platonic intimacy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:46:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,379</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28141425</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarriorOmen/pseuds/WarriorOmen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>5 plus 1 fic of the headbonk of love in different time periods, situations, and scenarios.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>234</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Head to Head In Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/pittedpeachpomegranate/gifts">pittedpeachpomegranate</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For those who may have seen it, the 'headbonk of love' has become a thing with Kaysanova. Goodomen's gave me some suggestions, based on a tumblr post about said headbonk. For all credits and explanations, please see my <a href="https://coffeebeannate.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>~~</em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Early 12<sup>th</sup> Century (1100’s)</em></p><p>“Yusuf..”</p><p>There’s irritable gesturing at his side, “Leave it. Leave me be.” Curt and irate, Yusuf stalks off down the road ahead of Nicolò, harsh prints left in the ground.</p><p>Or maybe Nicolò only imagines it being so, pursing his lips and mounting their horse (they share one between themselves), patting his flank to get moving in a slow trot. Yusuf has moved well beyond himself now, all Nicolò can see in his vision is the slight haze from the afternoon sun and the cloth that he recognizes as the back of Yusuf’s head before it vanishes elsewhere.</p><p>How fast he must be moving to achieve that, Nicolò is uncertain, but only bites the inner wall of his cheek in a grimace to keep from following. If Yusuf were that determined to be on his own, he could not-would not infer. No matter how tight the clawing in his chest may be.</p><p>This happened, sometimes. And Yusuf is not the only one it would occur within. Tempers would flare between them with no real way to quell nor combat. Both would struggle with their new world, their relationship, the tense anxiety that came of being permanently unable to go home.</p><p>No answers, no understanding but each other-and even that felt like a puzzle piece.</p><p>Intimacy with them came in waves, almost. Furious clawing, grasping and rutting on battlefields, tenderer moments later on. Attempts at bridge gaping, understanding, meshing with one another.</p><p>Yet it was so far from perfect. Where coiling, bursting, <em>radiating </em>passion surged, confusion, hurt, ignorance and mistrust festered.</p><p>A balance Nicolò was unsure how to strike.</p><p>Yusuf, he knew, and was learning to know, was a furiously impassioned man. Never had he seen someone wear his emotions so openly. Both a brand and a beacon. He rarely had to guess to what Yusuf was thinking, feeling, or believing.</p><p>But within that same delight came melancholy.</p><p>So, for now, he rides their horse, and tries not to worry to harshly to where Yusuf has wandered too. Offering him space and comfort in the same turn. Even if a hollow feeling takes root in his plummeting heart.</p><p><em>Not so fast, Nicolò.</em> He tells himself. <em>He will not wander far.</em></p><p>A hope he might pray for, should it come to that.</p><p>Yusuf does not join him at their fire. Nor at dinner when Nicolò has prepared it. He seeks him out and finds him a few roads away, down where they might soon cross into another village, sat upon the ground with his knees drawn to his chest.</p><p>Nicolò slides to the same height as he, hands braced upon his thighs, and Yusuf’s head turns to his automatically.</p><p>Unsure of how he comes to such an idea, Nicolò brings his hand about Yusuf’s neck, drawing him at the same moment he inclines his own head, their foreheads brushing in a gentle surge of warmth that draws a shiver through Nicolò that is mirrored in Yusuf himself.</p><p>Yusuf’s own hand comes to imitate Nicolò’s at his neck, they share space and breath, head-to-head, eye to eye.</p><p>So much he could ask, so much he could say. Yusuf is never one to fear speaking openly; but in the moment, the stillness, Nicolò soothes him with the strong grip, the press of their foreheads. That he’d come to get him. Come in the set of the sun and the cooling of the evening, even with the hours that had passed.</p><p>
  <em>My water in this desert, my saviour in the sunlight.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My oncoming storm in the heat, the coolness of the night.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>~~</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mid 17<sup>th</sup> Century (1600’s)</em>
</p><p>“Nico, Nico..”</p><p>There’s a hand at his back, at the spine, fingers rubbing and soothing, would be soothing, if Nicolò could ever catch his breath again, hunched over his own knees, hands long covered in tears.</p><p>“Love, heart, Nico, I am..”</p><p>Every intake of breath feels like razor blades in Nicolò’s throat, every gasp a shard of glass that pierces the delicate flesh and rips it to shreds, dragging hoarse, animalistic sounds out of him that bring a shudder to his limbs and a broken sob to earth.</p><p>Yusuf’s moved to around his front, Nicolò can still smell the blood, strong enough that it drives another heartbroken, terrified wail from him that he can hardly recognize to be his own voice.</p><p>“Nicolò, please, come here.” Yusuf urges, drawing him into his chest, against his heart, “Feel it, my love, my heart is no less strong than any other time.”</p><p>Hazy, watery eyes try to find focus and all they see is blood.</p><p>Guns are still newer to them. And they truly only seem to have improved in this century.</p><p>“There..there was.” Nicolò can hardly breathe to speak, his own fingers sticky, red and drenched where he’d been pressing furiously against Yusuf’s chest to get it to stop, feeling pulse after pulse cascade over his knuckles in their horrifying death cadence. “So much, Yusuf I-“</p><p>“I am here, my love.” Yusuf’s own voice is hoarse, like he’s still getting used to using it again despite having revived and being whole once more. “Safe, we are safe.”</p><p>Nicolò is only distantly aware of the boat still rocking beneath his knees, mindless to the wood slats that dig into them.</p><p>“Yusuf, I could never-“</p><p>Yusuf only shakes his head, using two hands-one below the chin, the other Nicolò’s cheek, to draw his head up, Nicolò urgently caving into the need, sighing with the touch of Yusuf’s forehead to his own.</p><p>In these positions, they share the same breath, the same view. It begins to soothe Nicolò in ways few things can. Even as the boat sways with the waves, Nicolò feels sturdy against Yusuf, and Yusuf he. Encased in the comfort they can only truly bring themselves.</p><p>~~</p><p>
 <em>Late 19<sup>th</sup> Century (1800’s)</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Stop giggling.” But Nicolò is laughing too hard himself to get a handle on it. “You’re going to mess the feathers.”</p><p>“Then those feathers.” Yusuf giggles more, “Will be grateful for my having done so.”</p><p>“You keep this up and I’m going to take your mask off and pluck it, and you shall have no feathers for the ball.”</p><p>Yusuf pretends to be aghast, “What horrors you speak of!” Still laughing too hard to make it serious, “This is not the fault of I that it tickles so much.”</p><p>Nicolò finally gets the mask tied around Yusuf’s head, covering the upper part of his face, leaving only the thinner beard (Nicolò lamented the thicker one but the current styles seemed to be more for trim looks) visible below his nose.</p><p>Yusuf looks ethereal in the gold and midnight blue, feathers resting atop the masquerade mask and craning over his head, giving him a startling appearance of an otherworldly being. The blue and gold brocade coat, and gold breeches with blue accents make for a stunning image that Nicolò is almost loath to leave behind at the end of the night. Even the blue shoes with their gold buckles match splendidly.</p><p>“What has you so dazed back there, Nico?” Yusuf asks, turning himself slightly to face him.</p><p>Nicolò has chosen purple and silver, his own mask less be-feathered, and having more of a horned and hawkish edge on either side, “Nothing that you would never know of.” Grey gaze sparkling and fond beneath the mask.</p><p>“Ah.” Yusuf’s hand reaches for his own, and subconsciously, their heads come together to rest-only to be interrupted by the plastic and feathers, bringing them both to confused pause before they blink and laugh in unison.</p><p>“Later, then, for we appear thwarted in this moment.” Yusuf can hardly say, voice rung from the laughter emitting.</p><p>“Later.” Nicolò agrees, near smirking. “When I drag one of those feathers down your chest.”</p><p>“Menace.” Yusuf whispers, delighted.</p><p>~~</p><p>
  <em>Mid 20<sup>th</sup> Century (1900’s)</em>
</p><p>There’s heat in Nicolò’s gut that has nothing to do with the sweltering late July sun. A coiling ripple that sends a tremble up his spine every time he so much as dares shift even an inch. Ever acutely aware of the predicament he is in at present.</p><p>Yusuf’s faring no better, Nicolò can sense it with every glance he gets towards himself, creating a new ripple of shivers even more. Still, they must get the car fixed-even if the sight of Yusuf, shirtless and soaked to the waistband from sunlight and heat has Nicolò continually forgetting the task at hand.</p><p>He’s on the ground, fiddling with a tire while Yusuf works the engine, each glance that Nicolò catches towards himself brings another heated coil deep within. He feels much like a furnace as Yusuf absently rubs a motor-oil covered hand across his forehead. Smearing grease and blackness across himself and frowning when he brings his fingers down to check.</p><p>“Shit.” Yusuf curses, and that’s what forces Nicolò to stand as though some other higher power has commanded it.</p><p>The want drips in saturated dollops when Nicolò comes towards him, Yusuf’s dark eyes scanning his own naked, sweat-smothered chest and the sheen of oil that’s fresh on Nicolò’s own palms.</p><p>Really, the cars a junker; it’ll be a slight miracle if the get it road worthy and running. But Nicolò is hardly thinking further of it when Yusuf draws him in. Nicolò’s hands fitting in their perfect, memorized pattern at Yusuf’s waist, leaning his head up.</p><p>“Nic-wait, the oil.” Yusuf protests too late, Nicolò groaning at the sound of his voice, hoarse and rough with lust.</p><p>“I hardly care of it.” Nicolò growls, pushing him backwards against the car, boldly moved into his space, even pushing further inward, more sticky oil sliding between their foreheads.</p><p>Nicolò feels his heart dancing when Yusuf presses back, sending promise even as desire trembles and threatens to break.</p><p>Soon, the car will be fixed.</p><p>Nicolò will make <em>damned </em>sure of it.</p><p>~~</p><p>
  <em>Late 20<sup>th</sup> Century (1900’s)</em>
</p><p>Joe is never going to catch his breath ever again. He is sure of it. Knows of it. Knows it even as Nicky shifts beside him, above him, around him. And he does not care. Even as he draws a shakier breath through his chest, wiping a messy hand across his own head to attempt to find a suitable rhythm again.</p><p>He’d ask for help, suggest it even, but Nicky is still panting and sounding quite like he might collapse, shaking his left leg out to free it of the cramp that had been forming.</p><p>“Holy shit.” Nicky finally speaks, because of course he gets to recover first, of course he does. “Joe?”</p><p>“Not here.” Joe protests, “Talk to my ghost.”</p><p>He hears Nicky snicker, “I’d be flattered, but then I’d miss you.”</p><p>“Assuming you’re not a ghost with me.” Joe says, attempting to deny the sweet flame that sparks with the words. So sweet, always so sweet, he is.</p><p>“Hmm.” Nicky makes no further comment, instead rolls over and begins to straddle Joe’s waist, eliciting another groan from him that nearly breaks his exhausted chest.</p><p>“Babe, please, I will never last.” Joe protests weakly, hands betraying him as they find Nicky’s strong hips, already lifting his head to the kiss Nicky’s bringing him. His lips are so warm, still swollen from their earlier activities, and sensitive, if the whimper he gets when Joe grazes his teeth along the bottom one is anything to go by.</p><p>“Nor would I.” Nicky groans, when they part for air, head sliding down until it bonks atop Joe’s, making him laugh, tiredly, sweetly. “You alright?”</p><p>“Exquisite.” Joe promises, even as every limb feels most unmovable. “You outdid yourself.”</p><p>Nicky snorts, Joe swears he sees an eyeroll, “Please.” Hands molding to his cheeks, palming along skin and beard. Joe hums, running the tip of his nose along Nicky’s. Sleep pulling aggressively at his brain.</p><p>When he yawns, Nicky slides down, tucking himself up under Joe’s chin, still mostly splayed atop of himself, cradled in Joe’s arms.</p><p>~~</p><p>
  <em>Early 21<sup>st</sup> Century (2019)</em>
</p><p>The airplanes that fly overhead are so loud, though Nicky feels he could do with the noise if the entire building didn’t shake along with it. Watching the window rattling with a frown as he moves restlessly along the safehouse.</p><p>He’s turned on the same lights twice already. There’s nothing fresh to eat, so Joe had gone out to get them groceries while Nicky worked on freeing the place from it’s may layers of dust.</p><p>He’s still working on a stubborn rug when he finally calls it quits, figuring the thing will never truly be free of it.</p><p>The rug is left at the door as a foot mat, going back to their joined bedroom to check on the blankets and sleeping bags. Absently fluffing a pillow to give himself something to do with his hands.</p><p>There’s no reason to be so damned restless. Joe’s barely a half hour away. Even if the last mission still beats a bitter thread in his skull, even as he feels the acidic burn of disgust pulling at his fingertips.</p><p>It’s left him unsettled, but he bites it back, knowing they need to be more present and welcoming for their newcomer.</p><p>Nicky debates picking up one of the brooms again, thinking there’s some aggressive dust near the back corners that he could work his frustrations out on when he hears the clicking and shoving of their heavy wooden door.</p><p>The pillow is instantly abandoned on the cot, stepping free from the back room to find Joe at the door, balancing two bags in his arms and working to close the door with his hip.</p><p>He does not even pretend like he doesn’t brighten immediately. Joe’s cheeks are slightly flushed from the wind the safehouse’s surrounding area always seems to have, crossing the wide breadth of the room to take the bags from him and set them aside a moment.</p><p>Joe, blessedly, reads him like a book, one hand to his waist under his light jacket, the other his neck, meeting Nicky in the middle where he’s already inclined his head. Somewhere, somehow, Nicky feels himself settle, letting out a sigh and freeing tension into Joe’s embrace.</p><p>Very slightly above him, he feels Joe exhale, and smile, leaning into Nicky’s hand as it cradles his neck.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much to Goodomens for the information, suggestion and ideas! This was of course, the inspiration I needed. Once I saw the post, I had wanted to do this, and well, I couldn't resist after I got your ideas and suggestions. Hopefully this is mostly what you had in mind, and falls in line with most of the suggestions you gave me.</p><p>Yes, I included the infamous deleted Gouissaneville scene as the Plus 1 scene, how could I not?</p><p>As always, self beta'd. Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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